


Natural

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, M/M, Sub!Athos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3308015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“That’s a big word. ‘Perverted’.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p><i>Someone who knew Athos less well would miss the sudden flatness in his eyes –</i> disappointment?<i> – as he replies, “And better people than you have shrunk from it.”</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Oh, I’m not going to do you the disservice of pretending I believe you,” Aramis counters, striking without hesitation, “but where I differ is, I’m going to give you a chance to prove it.”</i></p><p> </p><p>In which Athos isn’t the only one out of his depth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natural

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Amistosa](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Amistosa) and [mellyflori](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori) for their thoughts and encouragement.
> 
> Content notes: Sex fic. This one's pretty psychological BDSM, heavy on the humiliation with some self-hatred mixed in, and characters who are struggling through and hoping for the best. (And who probably should have picked some safewords and also discussed this beforehand.)

Though Aramis has always had a tendency to fall into situations beyond his understanding, he reflects as he stands opposite Athos inside the hallway of his flat that this is a new level of achievement even for him.

“You’ll be wanting to go, then.”

Aramis’ hackles rise, though it’s hardly a challenge – it’s the opposite, actually, Athos is staring somewhere over his left shoulder with a look of studied boredom that would fool almost anybody else; and what hits Aramis like a blow to the chest is the sudden certainty that Athos _expects_ him to go, to gather up his well-meant optimism and walk out.

That even Aramis couldn’t want this. Couldn’t want him like this.

So ever-contrary, he sets his jaw and says, “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Athos rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop staring Aramis down. “Don’t tell me you want this, because I won’t believe it.”

With anyone else, Aramis would protest, affirm that he does, very much, and trust his faith to carry him through; but this is Athos and he knows when something’s futile, so instead he says honestly, “But I’d like to try.”

Athos’ response is immediate, and blunt:

“Why?”

Aramis thinks, _because of the love we bear each other._

_Because after all this time, I still don’t understand you._

Aloud, he shrugs minutely and offers, “Why not?”

Athos huffs, finally breaking eye contact, and slumps back against the wall, looking round his living room – spotless, something about Athos’ living room always sets Aramis on edge – as if he’s seeing something there that Aramis isn’t. He says, almost to himself, “I’d rather not, if it means we won’t be able to look at each other afterwards.”

Aramis supposes it’s a testament to just how much they mean to each other. That, and the fact that Athos hasn’t thrown him out yet.

He clamps down on his natural urge to reassure, pointing out instead, “Well, you’ve told me and I’m still here.”

Athos doesn’t have to say that he doesn’t trust Aramis’ optimism one bit. It’s all in the look he gives him.

When Aramis just stares back, Athos jams his hands in his pockets, and looks at the floor. “For now, anyway.”

And the _way_ he says it, as if he expects nothing else –

“Your wife?”

Aramis winces as soon as he says it, of course; but to his surprise, Athos doesn’t seem to care. “No, actually. That was the one aspect in which we were rather well-suited.”

He closes his mouth, then opens it again, but appears to think better of it.

For a few moments neither of them say anything further, though Aramis’ mind is working a mile a minute, and Athos looks as though he’s somewhere else entirely.

In the end, Aramis decides he doesn’t know what else to do but ask, “Shall we take this to the bedroom, then?”

He’s still almost expecting refusal; but without another word, Athos turns abruptly on his heel.

Athos’ bedroom, Aramis discovers, is even more impersonal than the rest of his flat, if that’s even possible: mid-blue single man bedsheets, overhead lighting from one of those paper shades, the only sign of life a stack of books on the bedside table – and the first thing Aramis does is say, “Put the bedside lamp on,” before flicking the switch by the door.

As the lamp comes on, Athos is perching on the edge of the bed, his eyes on the wall – and he goes very, very still as Aramis sits down next to him and hooks a finger under his chin, turning him by the jaw until he meets his eyes.

It feels as if they’re both very young all of a sudden, Athos more vulnerable than Aramis has ever seen him, more unsure himself than he’s been in a decade or more.

It’s true that whether he’s at his strongest or his most vulnerable, Athos has always had that effect on him; and Aramis has always been a sucker for it.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, resting his other hand on Athos’ knee.

“Alright,” Athos agrees; and at least he’s moving too, closing his eyes in surrender and tilting his head to welcome Aramis’ kiss.

Aramis is gentle and closed-mouthed at first, wanting to allow Athos the time and space to relax, and just get used to this; but when he moves his hand from Athos’ jaw to rest against his neck it seems to have entirely the opposite effect, as Athos shudders with his whole body and something like a whimper escapes him, his own hand coming up to grasp Aramis’ wrist in a way that he doesn’t know how to interpret at all.

“Good, or not good?”

“Good,” Athos replies, his tone almost apologetic. “It’s – it’s good.”

“Is this something you want me to do?”

“…yes. I’m afraid it’s rather specific.”

Aramis tightens his grip. “Tell me?”

“Hold me down. Like this. And – it’s in the drawer.”

But that’s not all of it, Aramis knows. It’s not what Athos said to him not ten minutes ago, as matter-of-fact as on assignment, to try and disgust him into walking away.

To try and force Aramis’ hand, to make him do what Athos couldn’t.

Voice barely above a whisper, Aramis finally asks the question: “And what would you like me to say?”

“That it’s – that I’m –” Athos closes his eyes again, and rests their foreheads together as he pushes the words out – “perverse. Unnatural. That I can’t – that it’s abnormal, to need this. The – shame, mainly.”

For a moment Aramis can’t speak; and he wraps Athos automatically in his arms and pulls his head down to his shoulder so that he doesn’t have to see the horror that Aramis knows is on his face.

_He was right._

Of course he fucking was. Even though there’s nothing Aramis wants less to be true.

He can’t have met his match: not now, not _here_. Not with Athos, whom he’s never known let _anyone_ in; if even _Aramis_ can’t bear to –

But that doesn’t erase the fact that it goes against everything he stands for. To say such cruel things, when he knows Athos must believe them –

But Athos _wants_ him to.

Athos is an adult and he has the right to want what he wants, and Aramis doesn’t have to like it.

“You can still go, you know,” Athos murmurs against his shoulder; and Aramis knows exactly how he sounds when he’s keeping himself in check.

_No. Not now, not like this._

Aramis pulls Athos’ head gently back up, noting how his nostrils flare, and his pupils blow just a little.

“I’m not going anywhere,” is all he trusts himself to say, before kissing him properly, wishing for a moment that he could just lose himself in Athos’ warmth and that they could find their way through this together, natural as breathing.

But wishing won’t make it so; and so he confesses against Athos’ lips, “I’m gonna need you to help me,” punctuating his words with kisses. “I don’t know how this works yet. Is it... okay if I like it?”

If he has to do it grudgingly, Aramis doesn’t think he can.

“Yes, you can like it.” Athos almost sounds amused. “I’m not sure it would make any sense if you didn’t.”

Aramis decides it’s not worth arguing that when it comes to kinks, things don’t have to make any sense. Especially not something like this.

“Okay. And are you just gonna roll over for me, or do I have to make you take it?”

 _That’s_ it, he sees it immediately as Athos goes tense beneath Aramis’ hands, one on his waist and the other still on his neck. “I – want to,” he admits, burying his face in Aramis’ neck, the words almost inaudible. “And you want me to. But it’s – not easy. For me.”

“But you need it, don’t you?” Aramis croons, his hand sliding up just a little to tangle in Athos’ hair. “And you just need someone to make sure you get it?”

“Yes,” Athos whispers, and Aramis pulls him tight against his body for a moment – before throwing them both down against the mattress.

He’s on firmer ground now, and he thinks he might just know how he’s going to play this.

“You just relax, darling,” he croons, shifting over and pulling Athos with him so they’re lying down almost fully across the bed, only their feet dangling off the edge, as he grabs a pillow and puts it beneath both their heads. “It’s going to make it all so much easier.”

“I don’t exactly associate this with relaxation,” Athos remarks, his expression a ghost of his usual good humour; and Aramis can’t help smiling.

“Well, this is the Full Aramis Treatment,” he jokes, pushing his hand up beneath Athos’ shirt and stroking over the warm skin beneath. “You’re going to relax, and when you’re relaxed I’m going to give you everything you need. And you’re going to be beautiful when you take that cock for me, aren’t you?” He pauses, but makes himself say it: “When you debase yourself?”

He isn’t expecting a reply, but Athos arches into him with a gasp, the words rushing out of him: “Yes, _God_ , yes,” he hisses against Aramis’ ear, and he’s hard where he rubs against Aramis’ hip. “You make me say it. You always make me say it.”

It takes Aramis a moment, but then it clicks – and he grabs Athos’ hair by the roots, forcing his head back. “And you’ll look me in the eye when you say it. I want to be sure you know exactly what you are.”

The fear on Athos’ face makes him think for a moment he’s gone too far – but then Athos’ hips push against his once more as he blurts out, with great effort, “I’m – depraved.”

The second time he hears it, Aramis’ heart breaks a little less; and Athos accepts his kiss as gratefully as he bestows it, hand fisting in Aramis’ shirt between his shoulder blades.

“And you’re gonna tell me all about it when I let you have that toy in your arse, aren’t you? What’s it like, silicone?”

“Glass,” Athos admits – and why _that’s_ shameful Aramis has absolutely no clue, but Athos’ eyes flick away for a moment, as if he can’t quite bear to keep his gaze.

“You like that, do you? What about it?”

“It’s – cool. Unyielding.”

“Not cold, though? I’ll warm it up first?”

“Not cold, no.”

“Hmm.” Aramis kisses him again. “Get it for me?”

Athos pushes himself up to sitting, twisting to open the bedside drawer – and when he turns back with the toy in his hand, Aramis has to stop himself whistling because that thing is _big_. Not ridiculously so, granted, but more than he’d expected. Definitely more than his own cock.

Instead, he crawls forward and brackets his knees either side of Athos’ hips, pushing him back down to the bed, one hand curling into his hair to hold him down as Aramis kisses along his neck. “And how do you get yourself ready for a monster like that?”

“I normally use a plug,” Athos replies, one finger hooking onto one of Aramis’ belt loops, though he doesn’t try to move him anywhere.

“What about if I want to use my fingers?”

“That’s – fine,” Athos manages, with the ghost of a smile, turning his head away so his profile’s cast in shadow. “I’m not quite so specific as all that.”

“Good, good,” Aramis murmurs, licking and kissing up behind Athos’ ear, more relieved than he’d expected, or wants to show. For all that he wants this, and wants to give Athos what _he_ wants, he still wants it to be him.

Well. Not that he thinks Athos will ever forget who he’s with, or run the risk of using Aramis purely to get his rocks off, but. He wants to give _himself_ too.

It occurs to him then that he doesn’t know if Athos has even realised that.

Aramis’ hand is already beneath Athos’ shirt, his breath hitching as Aramis tugs at his hair again, lips at his collar as he asks, “Do you like getting fucked?”

“Ah – I wouldn’t know.” Athos’ hand is very still where it’s slightly curled around the waistband of Aramis’ jeans, his other hand still flat against the bed with the glass dildo resting across his palm. “Never had the opportunity.”

Aramis finds himself wondering, not for the first time, if there has truly been nobody but Athos’ ex-wife, and whoever it was that Athos implied couldn’t go through with it.

He knows all too well that that’s not the tack to take, however.

Instead, he pushes his hand up further beneath Athos’ shirt and circles the pad of his thumb around one nipple, saying deceptively casually, “So tell me. What, exactly, about this is wrong?”

He could be mistaken, but he thinks the way Athos presses up against him has more to do with his words than with any sensation.

“‘Wrong’ is the wrong word,” Athos says, voice tight; and this is clearly difficult for him, does he like that too? “What makes me perverted is the fact that this is the only way I can get off, by being told how perverted I am.” He makes a noise that might almost be a laugh. “Don’t you just love vicious circles.”

There are so many things Aramis still wants to ask – does he want to break that circle, has he tried, does he hate himself for it as much as Aramis suspects he does – but he can feel the way Athos is tensing beneath him and sees the way his expression shutters, and so all he asks is, “So it’s not the act of penetration, it’s the need for it? Coupled with the humiliation?”

Athos makes the same almost-laughing noise again, but this time it sounds a lot shakier. “And discussing my need for humiliation, apparently.”

Aramis doesn’t reply in words. Instead he presses his hips down against Athos’ unmistakeable hardness, grinding against him as he tugs again on Athos’ hair just because he can. “This is working for you, then?” he replies, unable to keep the self-congratulatory note entirely out of his voice. “‘Cause I can’t help thinking it might work even better with my fingers inside you.”

“ _God_ , yes,” Athos replies, his eyes rapidly losing focus as he tries to push himself up for a kiss and hisses in pain when Aramis’ hand tightens in his hair, not giving any quarter.

Aramis relents after a moment, hauling him up into a rough kiss. “How would you like to be for this? What are you used to?”

“Hands and knees,” Athos admits, “with you behind me.”

“Hmm.” It isn’t quite what Aramis wants – and he’s silent for a moment, mouthing at Athos’ neck again below the line of his beard, as his mind runs through all the possibilities. “Because I can think of somewhere else I’d rather have you.”

“Oh?”

To illustrate, Aramis shoves Athos roughly back down to the mattress. “Where I am now. Straddling my thigh, jeans and boxers pushed down. I want to see if this perversion of yours extends to giving me a good show.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Athos moans, bucking up against Aramis as if he just can’t help himself before scrambling up, almost knocking Aramis over in his haste to get up and switch their positions.

Aramis lets him free, barely giving Athos a moment to get his balance before he pulls him back in for a hard, swift kiss, reaching down and pressing the heel of his hand into Athos’ crotch for the first time and grinning against his lips as Athos gasps a puff of air into his mouth.

Aramis pushes Athos back up so he’s sitting straight, drops both hands and rests them deliberately over Athos’ belt buckle, watching how he’s silent and still, before saying as casually as he knows how, “That’s a big word. ‘Perverted’.”

Someone who knew Athos less well would miss the sudden flatness in his eyes – _disappointment?_ – as he replies, “And better people than you have shrunk from it.”

“Oh, I’m not going to do you the disservice of pretending I believe you,” Aramis counters, striking without hesitation, “but where I differ is, I’m going to give you a chance to prove it.”

Anyone less self-possessed would have actually said, _what?_

Athos, though, does actually blink as he repeats faintly, “Prove it?”, as thrown as Aramis has ever seen him.

And for Aramis’ part, he relishes it. He allows himself to, because what’s needed here is distance. Antagonism. The paradoxical art of hurting the one you love, where to come together one first has to push apart.

Besides. He refuses to allow Athos to expect as little of him as he clearly does. This is Aramis’ arena, and he refuses to relinquish it without a fight.

“I’m not convinced,” he says, tone a perfect study of Athos’ own occasional drawling disdain. “I mean, you know I’ve been around, and I’ve seen some _really_ fucked-up shit in my time.” He pauses for effect, offering a silent apology to the previous lovers whose tastes are being maligned for current purposes, however much in the abstract. “If you want a place in that list, you’re going to have to work for it.”

Athos’ eyes widen, and for just a moment, Aramis thinks that he has him.

Then they narrow, and Athos’ hand comes out to seize Aramis by his shirt collar, dragging him up off the bed.

“I’m not your performing monkey,” Athos spits – and he’s angry, _good, good,_ Aramis decides, surprising himself a little by how much he means it, actually _feels_ it hot and righteous in his chest.

“Wrong. That’s exactly what you are,” he explains, seizing Athos by the hair and tugging viciously, not caring if he likes it. “Because unlike everyone else, I don’t feel sorry for you. All I’m seeing here is dressed-up narcissism, and I’m really not impressed. So you’d better put on the best damn show of your life if you want me to think you’re even worth degrading.”

Though Aramis refuses to let his expression slip as he raises an expectant eyebrow, his face scant inches from Athos’, there’s a moment where he knows he might just have fucked this up completely – before the set of Athos’ jaw relaxes just a fraction, and he asks, “What do you want from me, then?”

Aramis rolls his eyes as he starts to undo Athos’ belt. “I already told you. Weren’t you listening?”

Athos’ face could have been made from stone, for all the emotion he shows. “Well, then. Lube and gloves are in the drawer.”

Aramis supposes that it’s a start.

“I was wrong, you know,” he says as he pulls the nitrile glove onto his right hand, giving the band an audible snap before pouring a dribble of lube over his fingers. “I don’t expect you to relax. So, why do you think you’re like this?”

The fear he sees in Athos’ eyes at that is almost enough to have Aramis wanting to take the words back, as Athos’ hands freeze where they’re tucked into the waistband of his now-unzipped jeans. “Sexuality is hardly logical,” he snaps, though it barely covers his terror.

“And that’s not what I asked,” Aramis replies, reaching out to brush his left thumb over Athos’ hand, every instinct saying to him _too much, too soon._ _Change the subject_ _._ “Take them down. Jeans and underwear. And look at me while you do it.”

A cock’s just a cock, and so Aramis resists the temptation to look down as Athos pushes everything down to his thighs and keeps his eyes firmly on his face, the mixture of shame and defiance there, the slight flush on his neck that disappears down into the collar of his shirt.

 _Push and pull_ , he thinks, taking a little pity on Athos and hauling him forward onto his hands and knees, holding him inches from Aramis’ lips as he presses slicked-up fingers against him for the first time, nuzzling sympathetically against the hairless skin of his neck as he feels him trembling.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” he croons, rolling his knuckles back and forth between Athos’ legs, one hand on the back of his neck holding him firm against Aramis’ shoulder. “Now tell me, what are you going to give me in return?”

It takes a moment for Athos to reply, “I don’t understand,” tensing again beneath Aramis’ touch though he keeps the movement of his fingers steady and predictable.

“Well, it’s all been about you so far,” Aramis points out reasonably, “what you want, what you need. What gets you off. That’s what I meant, before. But I want to know how you’re gonna make me come. What you’re offering.”

He gives a precisely second for his words to penetrate before following up with the tip of one finger, pushing it inside Athos up to the second knuckle and making him groan and shudder, not giving him the time or space for guilt.

“I – thought you’d tell me,” Athos admits, voice shaky as Aramis pushes his finger further inside, crooks it a little to find Athos’ prostate, rubs just a little too softly over the smooth, flat spot there. “What you want from me.”

That’s how it must always have been for him, Aramis realises. Orders, instructions, submission; and he doesn’t know, nor does he dare ask, but he thinks the ex-wife may just have liked having him that way a little too much.

He pushes down his unease and presses, “I want you to make me an offer.”

Athos seems to flounder. “You mean, a hand job? Blow job? I don’t –”

Aramis yanks him up by the hair so they’re looking each other in the eye.

“I’ll take the blow job,” he says smoothly, carefully noting the way Athos’ eyes widen, wondering how aware he was that he was even offering. “Your first?”

He’s expecting a yes more than a no, but what he certainly isn’t expecting is the beautiful way Athos drops his gaze, his expression a picture of desire and of discomfort. “Not if you count phallic objects, no.”

Aramis almost wants to punch the air in his triumph, but restrains himself, instead his hand coming round to lift Athos’ chin, forcing him to meet Aramis’ eyes.

“Are you ashamed?”

“Yes,” Athos replies, only the quietness of his voice betraying his reluctance.

“Good,” Aramis praises, smiling all the wider, before leaning in to kiss him again, deliberately sucking Athos’ bottom lip into his mouth and nipping a little with his teeth. “Humiliation looks good on you, it seems.”

“One can only hope,” Athos replies, with the ghost of a smile that has Aramis wondering for a moment what it is Athos is seeing as he gazes over his shoulder.

This isn’t normally Aramis’ area, if he’s honest; and it takes a second to realise that he’s the tyrant here, and while some things are a push too far, within certain parameters he can have whatever he desires.

Without warning he adds another finger – and _that_ gets Athos’ attention.

“Now that you’re back with us,” he says, giving Athos a pointed look as if he’s barely noticed his wild eyes, the sweat forming at his hairline as he’s stretched open, “tell me. How you knew you liked this. How you discovered it. Why nothing else compares.”

Athos’ fear is less this time, but his voice is still tight as he replies, “I’d prefer to keep some of my secrets, thank you,” even with the movements of Aramis’ fingers pushing back and forth inside him.

And Aramis almost laughs. “No. No, I don’t think so. Never mind the blow job, _this_ is what I want from you. In return for your pleasure.” He watches Athos bristle, set his jaw, and knows it’s time to confess: “You’ll have noticed there are things you’ve asked me for that I haven’t delivered on. Things I haven’t said. And in truth… I’m not sure I can bear to. Morally speaking.” He pauses – but Athos is just watching him silently, and Aramis wonders how long this awful resignation has been in his eyes, whether it’s never really left.

“But… I think there might be another way.”

Athos’ face changes, so subtly that anyone other than Aramis might not have even realised. As it is, Aramis isn’t entirely sure he can interpret it yet. “And what would that be?”

“Shame takes many forms.” Aramis yields to temptation and brings the hand that’s not inside Athos’ body to his cheek, caressing the line of his jaw. “There might be something else that works for you, that you haven’t tried before. Like telling me about it. How it feels for you, or what you fantasise about. What you see when you close your eyes and fuck yourself on that lovely glass cock.”

Aramis has no words to describe the way that Athos looks when he says those words, how he closes his eyes and turns his face into Aramis’ hand, resting his lips against the palm as though he wants to hide there; and Aramis can’t help sense something shattering behind those closed eyelids, whether for good or ill he can’t yet tell.

He keeps his fingers very still.

When Athos finally speaks, the words are soft against Aramis’ palm, and his voice hoarse: “Forgive me for assuming that you wanted me to enjoy this.”

Aramis knows intellectually that he’s travelled a long road, and that he’s lost sight of the days when he used to be ashamed of what he could dream up in the darkest corners of his sexual mind; but he still remembers the days of feeling alarmed, fearful, even occasionally nauseous as he peeled back his own deepest layers and learned to reconcile them with the person he understood himself to be.

So he strokes Athos’ face and says, “You can, I promise. Don’t go for broke just yet. Find something that makes you ashamed but also makes you hot, and tell me a story. And I’m just going to listen, and I’m going to touch you.”

Athos nods, and settles his face against Aramis’ neck before he starts to say, voice halting, “It was – I was nineteen when I first did it. Fingered myself, that is. I didn’t dare before that, not in my parents’ house, not even with the door locked and everyone out. I waited until I was at university, and I had my own space.”

Aramis slides the flat of his hand down Athos’ body and ever so lightly takes his cock in hand, just letting the weight of it settle against his palm, noting that it’s rock-hard, and appreciating the way Athos hisses against him as he starts, ever so slowly, to move his fingers again.

“Paint the picture,” Aramis murmurs, sliding his fingers slowly back and forth inside Athos and wondering if it’s nearly time for a third. “Help me imagine it.”

He thinks for a moment that Athos has gone completely quiet on him, but then the words finally come: “It was – dark. No lights on. I’d checked the lock on my room door three times. The curtains were closed, and I…” he falters for a moment, “I didn’t know how to be. How to sit, or lie.”

“And how did you feel?” Aramis asks, sliding his hand just once up and down the length of Athos’ cock for emphasis, feeling the way Athos gasps against him more than hearing it.

“I felt small. Stupid. And – aroused. More than I ever remembered feeling.”

“And what happened next?”

“I lay on my side. That seemed the best way. I dripped the lube onto the fingers of my right hand, and reached around.”

“Do you want to be like that again? To make it happen that way?”

“I… yes.”

Aramis slides his fingers carefully free of Athos before encouraging him onto his side and crawling behind him, carefully arranging his legs, pushing a pillow between his knees so that Aramis can reach down between his legs and push freshly-lubed fingers back inside him.

“Put your hand on your cock,” he instructs, his left hand resting over Athos’ neck and gripping just enough to feel like it’s weighting him down, “touch yourself, and tell me what you’re thinking.”

Slow and careful, he adds a third finger, his own cock jumping still in his jeans as Athos _moans_ as he feels himself being stretched a little more, and after a flutter of hesitation, his left hand comes to rest on top of Aramis’ where it covers his neck, holding him there.

“I… didn’t understand,” Athos eventually gets out, and Aramis’ eyes can’t choose between the way his face is screwed up as if he’s in pain and the strange gentleness of his own hand on himself, drawing his pleasure out even though his cock looks half-desperate, hard and leaking.

“I was scared, and it was _amazing_ , and I thought I was changing myself forever. That I’d get myself off like that, and when I left my room, people would look at me and they’d see it in my face.” He squeezes his cock just a little harder, and lets out a breathy gasp. “They’d _know_ what I did. What was wrong with me.”

While something below Aramis’ ribcage itches to reassure, to say there’s nothing wrong about feeling pleasure when it doesn’t hurt anyone else, how _could_ there be – he makes himself clamp down on that urge and says instead, “And you liked that, didn’t you? That was what made you hot, made you come.” He crooks his fingers to rub deliberately over Athos’ prostate, watching the way his mouth falls open and he curls in on himself, the breath rushing out of him as if he feels his own desire like a punch. “The idea that anyone could look at you and know you liked to fuck yourself.”

“ _Fuck_.” Athos’ fingers tighten against Aramis’ on his neck, as Aramis tightens his own grip in turn, fingers curling round to cover Athos’ bared throat as he works his other hand as steadily as he can, rubbing against Athos’ prostate over and over. “I think – I might –”

“Shh,” Aramis croons, stroking a finger over his Adam’s apple. “If it happens, let it happen. Now, what about if someone discovered you, someone like me?” They weren’t at university together, but Athos is so far gone Aramis knows it’s not like it matters. “Let’s say I came to ask you something, and you hadn’t locked the door after all. Imagine being discovered with your trousers round your ankles and your fingers up your own arse –”

And that’s enough for Athos to let out a shuddering groan and come into his own cupped hand, his muscles clenching round Aramis’ fingers over and over, hard enough to bruise, and Aramis just presses his fingers a little harder against Athos’ throat and murmurs, “There you go, there, there,” holding him through his comedown.

Athos doesn’t say a word as Aramis slides his fingers out of his body, leans over to press a final kiss to his lips before disposing of the glove; he just busies himself dressing again and doesn’t even look at him until Aramis says, “I’m staying, if that’s alright with you.”

He’s half-expecting a brush-off, but Athos just says faintly, “Be my guest” – before frowning as something occurs to him.

“You haven’t come.”

He’s right, and normally Aramis would be the first one to make a point of it; but though he’s still half-hard, at the same time he already feels wrung out, and thinks he could probably quite easily ignore it in favour of some sleep and some comfort.

“I don’t mind,” he says truthfully, “why don’t we just get into bed?”

Of course, once they’re in bed together and he’s curled up against Athos’ back, an arm wrapped over his waist and breathing warm breath against the back of his neck, Aramis’ cock becomes insistent, hardening rapidly against the cleft of Athos’ arse through both their boxers as if it knows where it wants to go.

And the moment Aramis thinks of being inside Athos with more than just his fingers, his hips give a little push before he can stop them, grinding against him and sighing out his pleasure against Athos’ hairline.

Immediately he feels Athos still against him.

“Sorry,” Aramis says, his voice loud as it breaks the long silence. “It seems I may have been overly optimistic.”

The noise Athos makes is a snort of amusement; and just like that they’re themselves again, even in bed like this, Athos turning in Aramis’ arms and pushing him onto his back with a hand flat to the chest, saying, “Let me?”

“You don’t –”

 _Mind,_ Aramis wants to say – but stops himself, because he should give Athos a little more credit than that, and for a moment he’s a little ashamed of himself.

He doesn’t know quite how Athos takes it; but he can feel himself being regarded for a moment, has seen that expression on Athos’ face enough times to see it now even in the dark, before Athos asks, “So what do you – like?”, with his palm still flat against Aramis’ chest.

“Generally, most things. But now? I just want your hand,” Aramis confesses, excitement already pooling deep and low in him, dripping down like molasses.

But he can’t stop himself from adding, “We’ll talk about it –” and it’s _everything_ he means – “just not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Athos agrees, amused again, though Aramis doesn’t know why; before he shifts again until he’s pressed up against Aramis’ side, his lips are at Aramis’ neck, and in the dark, he’s reaching out.


End file.
